The Killer in the Dark Affair
by Tomlette
Summary: A day at U.N.C.L.E. HQ is bad enough when Napoleon is forced to deal with a sick Russian, and gets even worse when a THRUSH agent infiltrates the building. Please R&R!
1. Act I: Doesn't he know it's freezing?

_**Author's Notes:** The following is only a small piece of a fic I have been working for sometime now. I have spent more time and effort in this one story than I have most anything else I've written, and I am in desperate need of constructive criticism! Please read carefully, and rather you like or dislike the story, please let me know if you find any grammatical or spelling errors and also if you would like to review the rest of the story. Thank you for all of your help! –The Tomlette_

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**The Killer in the Dark Affair**

**Act I:**

"**Doesn't he know it's freezing outside??"**

Illya Kuryakin bent over a toilet in the men's bathroom of U.N.C.L.E. New York, vomiting behind the closed door of a stall. On the other side of that door, his friend and partner, Napoleon Solo, did his best to ignore the unappetizing sounds while also trying not to feel too sympathetic. Illya was the fool who came into work knowing he had the flu.

Napoleon shoved his hands in his pockets and walked over to the paper towel dispenser, examining it with feign interest. As he did so, he raised his voice to speak to the man locked in the stall. It seemed the only way Illya would hear him over that racket. "_Tovarich_, if you're that sick, you should've just stayed home today. The world will not end if you take one day of sick leave."

Napoleon had to wait for a pause before he got a response. "I…I didn't…think…I was…" Illya's voice seemed so exasperated and weak that Napoleon frowned and turned to face the locked door, giving in to his actual concern for his Russian comrade.

"Do you need anything?" Napoleon asked, his voice somewhat softer and reflecting his genuine concern, "A drink? A wet towel?"

"My gun would be nice," Illya's weak voice replied. "Then I could just blow my head off and be done with it."

Napoleon smirked a bit. Illya was still making jokes at least, which meant he wasn't quite dead yet. What the American agent didn't realize was that Illya was only half joking. "A tempting proposal," he teased, "Unfortunately, I think the cleaning crew might frown on the idea somewhat."

"Naturally," Illya rasped, "You always manage to ruin my best ideas, Napoleon." This was immediately followed by yet more vomiting.

The smiled wavered on Napoleon's face. "Are you sure you're alright in there?" he asked seriously.

"Da…da…," Illya's answer was strained. Again, Napoleon found himself frowning. Illya only reverted to Russian when he was delirious or seriously ill. "Just…one moment…Napoleon…."

Napoleon sighed and retreated, obeying Illya's request. Again, he found himself somewhat aggravated with the Russian's insistence on coming to work despite his illness. Blasted, bullheaded Illya…Never mind that Napoleon would have done the same thing if he had thought Headquarters needed him that day. But Illya was _not_ really needed for anything specific today, Solo reasoned with himself, at least nothing of which he was aware. Napoleon quietly fumed and waited, dispassionately occupying himself with the water faucet in the meantime.

At length, the horrendous sounds stopped, and shortly there after the toilet flushed. Napoleon turned to the stall door just in time to see it open, and Illya slowly emerged. Napoleon's eyes widened slightly at the sight of his partner, so much so that he had to check himself to keep his jaw from dropping as well. Suddenly, shooting Illya seemed less like a joke and more like a mercy killing.

Though Illya's complexion was light by nature, his face had reached a point of paleness that he looked more grey than white. His blonde hair was in complete disarray, his blue eyes were sunken in and even they seemed to have paled, and he had such bags under his eyes it seemed to Napoleon he should be storing money in them. All in all, Illya looked more like the living dead than an U.N.C.L.E. Enforcement agent.

Napoleon moved aside as Illya slowly made his way to the sink. Napoleon took that time to note the lack of confidence in Illya's steps. He could only assume Illya was lightheaded, dizzy, or both—and wisely so, considering the Russian's most recent activities. He was probably dehydrated. Napoleon no longer found himself cursing the blonde man for coming to work; more so, he found himself wondering how Illya even managed to get to Del Floria's.

Napoleon opened his mouth to speak, but Illya answered his question even before he could ask it. "I'm fine," he said curtly, his voice much stronger than he looked right then, or surely felt. "I just need to wash my face." Napoleon slid even farther away from the sink and gestured to it with both hands, as though saying _Okay, so what are you waiting for?_

Illya took the invitation and continued his advance on the sink, only to lose his balance along the way. He would have fallen had Napoleon not rushed to catch him. Once they were in such close proximity, Napoleon could feel the heat of a severe fever radiating from his partner.

"Fine, huh?" he scrutinized Illya as he set him back up. Napoleon made sure Illya could stand up by himself before he turned away to retrieve a paper towel and wet it.

"Yes, I'm…fine…just a little dizzy," Illya insisted. However, this time he failed to keep the exhaustion from his voice.

"If you're fine, _tovarich_, then my last name is Bonaparte," Napoleon responded. He returned to Illya's side with a cool, damp towel and placed it on Illya's forehead. Illya lifted his hand to hold it in place, relieving Napoleon of the duty. "First," the American began as he gently led Illya away. The sickly man wavered again, so Napoleon put his arm around his shoulders to steady him. "I'm taking you back to my office. Then, as soon as you feel up to it, we're going to the infirmary. After that, you are going home, even if I have to drive you there myself."

Illya said nothing; he just walked along beside Napoleon with the paper towel on his head. No complaints, no comebacks, no accusations that Napoleon was over reacting, nothing. Just silence. Which, Napoleon had learned when dealing with Mr. Kuryakin, was consent. Napoleon felt a worried twinge in his stomach—maybe Illya was dying, after all.

When the phone resting on Napoleon's desk rang, he didn't believe he had ever been so relieved.

Since returning to Napoleon's office, Illya's condition had more or less stabilized. Though he was still prone to bouts of nausea, he seemed able to avoid most of that unpleasantness by lying down on the floor. When he couldn't, the trashcan was at hand. All the while Napoleon supplied him with glasses of water and more damp paper towels, even washing out the trashcan when needed—partly to insure that the stench didn't sink into the office, but he did it nonetheless. Napoleon had called the infirmary the instant he'd gotten Illya settled, only to discover that three agents from Section 3 had come in from a courier mission gone terribly awry, riddled with bullet holes and bleeding profusely. Needless to say, they informed Mr. Solo that they couldn't see anyone right then, and they'd call him back when they could. Napoleon had agreed and hung up the phone, understanding that the other agents' lives was more important than Illya's flu, but was beginning to wish he'd argued the point a little more thoroughly. Not because Illya's condition was beginning to worsen by any means, but because Napoleon couldn't do anything in the way of work so long as there was a Russian periodically throwing up beside him. That, and he knew he wouldn't concentrate on anything else until he knew his partner had received some sort of treatment.

Reaching for the phone, Napoleon glanced at Illya briefly. He was lying on the floor again, his latest glass of water practically untouched. Napoleon sighed as he held the receiver, realizing Illya's actions may signal another trip to the washroom in the next few minutes. "Solo."

"Hello, Napoleon." purred a soft voice at the other end. It conjured up the image of an especially attractive nurse in the infirmary. What was her name? Ashley? Annie? "I was told you needed a call back."

"Oh, hello…dear," Napoleon responded, his voice silken despite not remembering the poor girl's name. It wasn't Amy for sure—he'd remember a woman with the same name as his aunt. "Yes, I've been waiting for an hour and…" He lifted his wrist to check the time. "...Forty-two minutes."

The nurse giggled. "You Enforcement lot get finickier with the time the higher up you are," she cooed.

He smiled despite himself. "Well, we Enforcement lot have to be careful with our timing. Even a few seconds off could mean life or death."

Napoleon intended to continue, but a groan from the other side of the room reminded him why he was talking to the lovely Janey in the first place. Sally. Callie. Maybe it was Callie. "Anyway, the call isn't for myself—it's for Illya."

Instantly, her demeanor changed, and her voice became much more professional. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Flu, I think," Napoleon responded. "He started coming down with it earlier this week, after he took a swim in the Hudson. If it isn't flu, it's the worse cold I've ever seen."

"The Hudson?! The Hudson River?!" Janey/Jamie/Annie/Callie exclaimed, horrified. "Well, no wonder he's sick!! Doesn't he know it's nearly freezing outside right now?! I know he's from Russia and all, and I'm sure they have terrible winters but…Napoleon, what on Earth was he doing swimming in the Hudson??"

"Well, ah…" Napoleon loosened his tie a bit as he recalled their last mission. A local job, the sort of the thing usually reserved for the Section 3 agents, were the information in question not so sensitive. It was a recording of some sort, but beyond that even he hadn't ever really known what was on the tape Illya had dove into the river to save, after a THRUSH operative had dropped it over the side of a bridge. This, of course, was after Napoleon had called the man's bluff on dropping the tape in the first place. "It's a long story."

"Oh," the Sally/Ashley/Susie nurse responded, low and unsurprised. Susie. Not quite, but that was closer. "That sort of thing. Well, that sort of situation sounds more like a cold. Though it could be the flu, if he were coming down with it anyway before he jumped into the river. Then the cold would've brought it on faster, and probably harder, than it would have normally. Why don't you bring him down and we'll take a look?"

"Absolutely," Napoleon agreed. After a moment of thought, he added, "By the way, how are the Section 3 boys doing?"

Silence for a moment. Then, "Not so good. Dr. Lodi eventually sent two of them on to a local hospital for surgery. One of them is still here and we're just monitoring his condition for now. He'll probably be okay, but the others…" She let her voice trail off.

Napoleon nodded to himself, sending his best wishes and thoughts to the agents in surgery. Even now, as long as he'd been head of Section 2, it still disturbed him to lose an Enforcement agent. That, more than anything else he did, reminded him just how likely it was he could go to work one day, get shipped off to some obscure location, and never come back to tell the tale. Illya groaned again, bringing Napoleon back to the present. "Thank you for the update," he said sincerely, "Illya and I will see you in a few minutes."

"See you then," the nurse agreed, and then hung up. Napoleon followed suit and turned to face Illya. Sick or not, he knew the Russian had listened in on the entire conversation, and suspected his groans of being carefully placed during the conversation. "Are you ready?"

Illya didn't move for a moment, and then gave Napoleon a response he had not expected. "Julie."

Napoleon blinked in confusion, then smiled just slightly. Of course, Julie the head nurse in the infirmary. How had he forgotten? "Thank you, that was aggravating me to no end," he admitted. "How did you…?"

"You called her 'dear'," Illya explained, his eyes covered with the now more-or-less dry paper towel as he spoke. "You always greet a woman by her name, unless you don't know it."

Napoleon snapped his fingers in mock annoyance. "Blast," he joked, "You're on to me." He then stood and approached his partner's still form on the floor. "You realize that means I'll be forced to kill you."

"Please, do," Illya groaned, "I won't resist. I won't even fight. In fact, my tie tack is a bomb. If you would, just use your watch to detonate it…"

Napoleon shook his head as he kneeled down beside Illya. "I thought we discussed this already," he said, "The cleaning crew would be most upset with us, especially if it were an explosion. You'll just have to wait until we're off. In the mean time, you have an appointment with the lovely Ms. Julie, so! " Napoleon reached down and grasped Illya's arm firmly, then jerked him upwards as he stood. "Up! And please, try not to ruin the floor…"

Illya didn't respond. The sudden change of position forced him to resist that very urge. Napoleon waited, placing his arms around Illya's shoulders again, just in case, until Illya nodded that he was ready. Walking slowly, they entered the hallway and were headed in the direction of the infirmary, when the last thing either of them expected—or wanted—occurred.

The lights began to flash red, and the alarms began to sound.

In a matter of moments, both men were holding their guns at the ready. Napoleon wasn't surprised to see Illya draw his weapon, despite his claim in the bathroom earlier. They barely had time enough to take the safeties off when Napoleon's communicator went off. He didn't have to guess who it was as he withdrew the pen-shaped device from his coat pocket, activating it as other men and women raced by them. "Yes sir, Mr. Waverly."

Alexander Waverly's voice through the small speaker inside the device was as calm as ever, but there was an edge of urgency to his voice. Such an edge was rare for the head of U.N.C.L.E. North America, as he was renowned for facing problems such as almost certain world destruction with an air of casualness. "Mr. Solo, it appears we have been breeched. The tracking device on your person tells me both yourself and Mr. Kuryakin are on the second floor, where the breech is."

"Yes, sir, we are," Napoleon confirmed, and then glanced at Illya. "We will do what we can, sir, but I think Mr. Kuryakin—"

Napoleon didn't finish, the ice-cold stare of his partner's blue eyes forbidding him to go any further. Illya then shook his blonde head vigorously, loose strands bobbing about his face as he did.

"Yes, Mr. Solo?" Mr. Waverly sounded impatient.

"Ah, nothing, sir," Napoleon directed his attention back to his communicator. "A misunderstanding. Where are they located, and how many?"

"There's only one," Mr. Waverly replied, "And he's in the infirmary. There should be other Enforcement agents on their way now, as well as Security."

Napoleon felt his stomach knot. His mind began to run back over the story Julie had just told him about the unfortunate Section 3 operatives, and the one who would probably be okay. He was the only person, to Napoleon's knowledge, that had been let into the building without proper escort all day. "Yes, sir. We're on our way. Solo out."

He was putting the communicator away as Illya was already beginning to stride off, gun in hand, his face a void of expression. His game face one might say, Napoleon thought. It was like a thousand times before, when the chips were down, when the sharp tongues were replaced with fast draws, be the situation inside HQ or in a remote and foreign country. But, by the same token, this wasn't like anytime before either. That thought had barely passed his mind before he reached forward and grabbed Illya's elbow, restraining him from walking any further forward. Illya turned, allowing a look of confusion to cross his face.

"I know why you didn't want me to tell Waverly," Napoleon explained. He held his own weapon across his chest, like a priest holding a sacred crucifix. The comparison was suiting—both believed the objects would save them, in one way or another. "And I understand and respect that. But I also know that not minutes before, you couldn't even walk without assistance." Napoleon paused a moment, allowing the blue ice of Illya's eyes to meet his own steely brown ones. "That said, I need to know, Illya—are you absolutely positive you're up to this?"

For a moment, indignation and even a hint of anger crossed his partner's face. One thing the Russian simply could not stand was to have his abilities questioned, by anyone—not even Napoleon. But then his expression eased, and the senior agent realized that Illya was considering his words. Rather he liked it or not, Napoleon never questioned what he could or could not do unless there was a serious need—and in a case like this, if Illya weren't completely capable of fulfilling his duties, it could cost Napoleon—or anyone else in this building—their life.

"I am sure, Napoleon," he said, his voice firm, but non-abrasive.

Napoleon nodded. Any other agent he would have sent back to their office without a choice in the matter. But if Illya believed he was steady enough, then Napoleon believed he was as well—he trusted his partner to know his limitations. "Then lets go," he said, gesturing down the hall with his U.N.C.L.E. .38 Special while breaking into a run. True to form, Illya fell into stride beside him. "We're already behind the rest of the pack."

Behind them a dampish, brown paper towel lay wadded on the floor, its purpose served and its remains discarded and forgotten.


	2. Act II: A High Price for Relief

**Act II:**

**A High Price for Relief**

Upon their arrival, the infirmary entrance had already been swamped. On their way down, Napoleon had gone over the layout of the medical facility in his mind. There were no windows—patients that needed to be kept longer than one night were sent out to a random Manhattan hospital—and only one real entrance or exit point. It was possible to go up to the parking garage using an emergency elevator, but it was very deviously concealed as a back wall and could only be activated by one of the medical personnel. Not even Napoleon knew the code to use the elevator, and he guessed that while Mr. Waverly surely had access to it, it wasn't really something he kept memorized.

That, then, only left the main entranceway. It was sealed, of course, but every Enforcement and Security person on the entire floor watched it like a hawk, waiting for any sort of movement. Aside from that, however, not much was happening. Napoleon and Illya came up from a side that flanked the door to the infirmary, where they met several other Enforcement agents lying in wait. The two at the head of this group were a young, but efficient Spaniard by the name of Juan Rodriguez, and British agent Mark Slate.

The American and Russian slipped their way to the front of the pack, where they could see the door and get debriefed all at once. "Sorry we're late," Napoleon apologized; his lax tone sounded more like he had arrived at a cocktail party than a possible strike team. "Did we miss anything interesting?"

"Aside from everyone agreeing to disagree," Mark shook his head, "No, not really."

"What do you mean, 'agreeing to disagree'?" Illya gave Mark a somewhat scrutinizing glance before turning his attention back to the door.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" Juan responded, sparing a brief glance for Illya as well as Napoleon. "We all know the drill for an attack through Del Floria's, or the parking garage, or even from below. We even have new procedures concerning aerial attacks after that…that…" He waved his free hand, in search of a word. "…Mad Hater Affair…"

"Tea party," Napoleon corrected calmly, "The Mad, Mad Tea Party Affair I believe is what the reports called it."

"Yes, well, that," Juan dropped his hand, but continued staring at the door. "The point is we have procedures and protocols concerning every possible attack scenario, except this one. Who attacks from inside an infirmary, for Christ's sake?!"

"THRUSH." The statement was said in unison in a flat, unsurprised tone by Napoleon, Illya, and Mark.

Juan's expression didn't change, but his ears turned a little red. "Ah, aside from them…"

"What I should like to know," Mark broke in, "is how they got inside in the first bloody place. Shouldn't the alarms have gone off long before now if they didn't have a badge?"

Napoleon was busy looking at the door, a possible plan of action formulating in his mind, so Illya proceeded to explain. He had shared his theory with the Russian before their arrival. "Some Section 3 agents were admitted earlier today," Illya said, "Anyone who comes in for medical are given temporary visitors badges until they're awake enough to confirm their identity themselves. Usually someone does it before that point, though…Why hadn't they done a finger print check before now? Or ran dental records?"

"Or at least something," Juan agreed.

"I heard about that incident," Mark supplied, "Section 3 curriers intercepted by THRUSH on their way here from New Jersey. They were in fairly bad shape from what I understand. It's possible no one took the time to confirm their identities before now because of the severity of their injuries, but even that seems flem—"

"Shh," Napoleon held up his hand, and the trio behind him fell into silence. The men and women behind them seemed to lean in a little bit as well. Napoleon ignored them on whole and proceeded to hold out his hand. "Did anyone bring some knock-out gas?"

Mark shook his head while Juan and several others began patting down their person in search of the gas, but Illya calmly removed his left shoe and slid the heel aside, revealing a compartment and a very tiny metal canister inside. Placing the canister in Napoleon's hand, he stated simply, "Tear gas."

"That'll do." Napoleon closed his hand around it then leaned back, pulling his gaze away from the door to address the men and women behind him. Again, they all seemed to press in. "Now, I'm going to use the door's self-contained panel to open it, then throw the gas inside. That will force everyone inside out. Does everyone here have at least a general knowledge of what our medical staff looks like?" Nods all around. "Good. But just in case, I don't want anyone to get past our barricade, friend or foe. Now, to ensure this works, everyone else—" he gestured to the other groups of agents in the hallways—"has to know what we're doing as well. Now, Mark, I want you, Illya, and April—"

"April's on the other side of the hall," Mark explained quickly, "She and I were in separate rooms when the alarms went off."

"Okay then, just you and Illya—to stay here and guard this hole. The rest of you—" Napoleon directed his attention back to the group at large. "—Need to get to everyone else and let them know what's happening. Make sure that they know after that door opens, anything could happen, so to expect precisely that. Double check everyone is using tranquilizer darts as well. Does everyone understand?"

A round of quiet "Yes, sir's" responded. Napoleon nodded.

"You have three minutes. Go."

And like that, the group of agents scattered, each doubling back down the hall at a run until they reached a branch that would take them to another one of the surrounding groups. Once they had all vanished Napoleon glanced at his watch, and then directed his attention to Mark and Illya.

"When I throw the canister in," he explained, "I will probably be blinded myself for a moment unless I get very lucky, so—"

"We're on our own," Mark nodded. "No worries, mate—Illya and I have it under control. It's not as though it's a very wide hole, after all." Mark gestured to the span of the corner of the hallway they were hidden behind, just barely wide enough for two men to work in to begin with. Napoleon nodded in agreement, then looked at Illya questioningly. His face was still very pale, his eyes still sunken in, but his features hard and expressionless. He nodded once to answer Napoleon's unspoken question: _I am fine._ Napoleon sighed to himself in disbelief and checked his watch, reminding himself that Illya knew better than he did. Besides, it was a moot point—three minutes had passed ten seconds ago. He double-checked that the safety was off his weapon and that he had the canister.

"I'm going in," in announced, and did not wait for a reply from either Mark or Illya. He knew their only response would be to take a defensive position and make their senses fully alert, waiting for whatever would unfold.

Illya Kuryakin watched anxiously as Napoleon made his way to the door, stashing his pistol back into his shoulder holster with one hand and loosely gripping the canister with the other. His face, while very calm and collected, was not alight with its usual air of humor, charm, or arrogance. That Napoleon Solo had been left behind the moment the alarms went off. This Napoleon Solo was all business, concerned only with the completion of the mission at hand and the well being of the lives around him, particularly those likely held hostage inside the infirmary. All around them, Illya heard not so much as the intake of a breath, though there was surely a large portion of New York's Section 2 personnel present, not to mention the Security personnel. The anticipation of what was to come was thick, making the very air seem charged with nervousness, adrenaline, and heat.

Or maybe the heat was Illya's fever, burning him alive from the inside out. His stomach was still churning unpleasantly, begging to relieve itself of its digestion duties, and the sweat of Illya's palms made the grip of his gun feel slick. And the alarms…would someone please shut off the alarms! It seemed as though they were beginning to bore holes into his brain with their constant screaming. Oh, what he wouldn't give to be lying in a bed somewhere, far away from this nonsense, unconscious and oblivious to the world at large, and thus also to his own extreme discomfort.

_Stop thinking about it,_ Illya's mind chastised him, _Pay attention. Watch Napoleon. Wait for the door. Block the hole. Ignore the illness._ Like a military commander, his brain went over the things he was supposed to be doing rather than complaining to himself about his situation. Aware of the mistake he'd been making, Illya refreshed his attention by readjusting the handle of his weapon and crouching down slightly, like a lion on the hunt waiting for the perfect moment to strike. To his side, Mark detected the movement out of the corner of his eyes, and he spared a glance for his comrade.

"Are you all right?" Mark whispered, "You look a little pale."

Illya nodded, deciding now would not be a good time to explain that he had either the flu or an extreme cold. That could wait until later. Right now, he was busy watching Napoleon reveal a hidden panel beside the infirmary door and begin punching in a code that would open it. Panels such as this were installed on every computer-operated door in the facility, also as a result of The Mad, Mad Tea Party Affair. It insured that even if the security badges were turned against them or all together deactivated, those who knew the codes for the doors could still move about, while the intruder could not. Everyone knew how to open a few doors—the ones their jobs would require them to access in case of such an emergency—but few people knew how to access all the doors. On the Second Floor, there were only two people who knew all of the codes: The head of Security on that floor, and Napoleon.

Illya watched as the red light on the panel turned green, signaling his dark haired comrade had punched in the right code. Illya gripped his gun, and he saw the American grip the canister and remove the pin. No more time passed than an instant, but to Illya it seemed to last an eternity before Napoleon finally pressed the button to open the door, then threw the canister of tear gas inside.

Things happened very quickly after that. As Napoleon had suspected, the canister was not even out of his hand good before it began to spurt its contents, thus giving the American a strong enough dose of the gas to temporarily blind him. He stumbled backwards, away from the door and what Illya hoped would be the line of fire, as the rest of the gas sprayed into the infirmary. Two seconds, three tops, passed before people came rushing out of the fog, hacking and coughing. Nurses mostly, including Julie who Illya was supposed to have seen by now, a doctor or two, and a man in the remnants of a bloodstained button shirt and slacks. Illya gave this man a quick but thorough once-over. He was tall, slender, and very muscular. He'd left in such a hurry that he still had a catheter in his arm, and yet, despite the blood, he didn't seem to have any serious injuries.

"There, Mark!" Illya exclaimed, gesturing towards the would-be patient.

But the man seemed to know he was discovered. Already a few sleep darts had flown through the air, but all had missed—the haze caused by the tear gas made aiming very difficult. The same would have been true for Illya and Mark, had the assailant not taken stock himself and seen that their passage way, while blocked, offered the least resistance. He plunged forward, through the haze, straight for them.

Illya leapt back up to his full height as he squeezed the trigger, but even as he fired off the first few shots he realized the severity of his mistake. By completely ignoring his handicap, Illya had forgotten his earlier brief bout of dizziness when Napoleon had suddenly jerked him off the floor. Now, as he literally jumped from a half-crouching position to standing, the vertigo returned, disorienting him enough to make him stop firing for fear of hitting the wrong target, sleep darts or no sleep darts. Aggravated and frustrated as the world spinet out of control around him, all Illya could do was hope that Mark's sight was clear enough to get in a good shot at the assailant.

When he felt something roughly knock away his weapon and shove him against a wall, Illya guessed it wasn't.

At first, Illya thought he was going to be taken hostage. Then he felt the man began the pass him, and he realized the infiltrator was making a run for it instead. Determined not to make another mistake, Illya latched on to the man's midsection and attempted to tangle his legs with the assailant's in hopes of tripping him. The man stumbled, but caught himself and swung up against the nearest wall, bashing Illya's head against the hard metal. The blow was hard enough to knock out a perfectly healthy man, not to mention an already disoriented one. As Illya's mind swam out into unconsciousness, his last coherent thought was, _Well, at least I don't want to throw up anymore._

He wasn't even aware he'd released the man.

Napoleon knew that the gas would probably hit him to some extent. He also knew that, if it did, he would be nothing short of a sitting duck, and would have to depend on the abilities of those around him to keep him out of their line of fire. Never the less, once he was blinded, he stumbled back away from the door just in case. The sounds of guns firing all around him made blood pound in his ears, and every nerve in his body tingled with adrenaline. In his mind, Napoleon assured himself that all was under control; while at the same time utilizing every bit of training he'd ever received on not panicking. And understandably so. After all, friend or foe, when one is used to being shot at for a living, finding one's self blind in the middle of a firefight can be somewhat unnerving.

His eyes began to clear quickly after he got out of the doorway, but continued to sting and make him blink for several more moments. He couldn't see what was going on around him clearly yet, but he could tell that several had already picked out the would-be attacker. Napoleon glanced down again as he rubbed at his eyes in an attempt to make them stop watering and listen to his surroundings instead. The shots continued, but were lessening—presumably due to the gas now seeping out of the door, obscuring the vision of the agents as well as those who were inside. Then he heard heavy footsteps, more firing weapons, a small scuffle, and…

"Illya!!"

Mark's shocked voice shouted the word, and Napoleon's face was instantly up and looking around. He still couldn't see much, but his vision was clear enough that he saw the crumpled form of the blond Russian beside the far wall of the hallway he was guarding, his gun a few feet from him. Ahead of that was the back of a bloody shirt, fleeing into the hallways of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, and, Napoleon figured, what the assailant thought was freedom. Mark had his back turned to the group at large, squeezing off a few more shots before the man disappeared around a corner.

Napoleon drew his gun more by habit than by need as he ran to Illya's side. His initial thought was that the infiltrator must have had a weapon on him somewhere, but as soon as he got close enough to see the small smear of blood on the wall he could suspect what had happened, or at least part of it. It was odd, he would reflect later, when one was relieved to discover a dear friend had a mere head injury, as opposed to something more fatal. People were beginning to crowd in around them, and Mark was already half down the hall when Napoleon leapt to his feet.

"Mark!" he bellowed, taking several long, fast strides towards the man. Mark stopped and turned on a dime, looking first to Napoleon and then to something behind him. Out of habit, Napoleon followed the British agent's gaze to see April Dancer emerge from the flurry of agents scattering to search for the disappeared assailant, gun in hand. Napoleon had to do a brief double take—he'd never seen April actually wielding a U.N.C.L.E. Special before. Not surprising, it became her extremely well, and even added a hint of exotic allure to her otherwise almost school-girlish appearance.

Despite the slightly erotic scene, by no small act of will Napoleon managed to direct his attention back to Mark. "I'll fallow him; you two make sure Illya isn't trampled into a bloody pulp." He didn't even wait for a response before taking off down the hall, but he did turn and jogged backwards several steps as he added. "Make sure someone sees to the medical staff!"

With that, Napoleon spun on his heel and took off down the hall, vanishing around the same corner he'd seen the infiltrator disappear behind.

He was greeted by a familiar cross hall. This particular hall was a cross way between two main second floor passageways, with a total of three rooms which branched off from the sides. One room, alone on the left, was a storage closet. The other two were marked as men and women's locker rooms.

Slowing to a walk, Napoleon slipped his free hand into his pocket as he carefully eyed the hallway and doors as the flashing lights above occasionally bathed the scene in red. Only one who was suicidal would still be roaming about the halls, so the chances that Illya's attacker had vanished into one of these rooms was rather high. Silently weighing his options, Napoleon quietly strode over to the closet, pulling his weapon back as he removed his freehand and placed it on the door knob.

"What's behind Door Number 1," he muttered, then quickly jerked open the door, using the wood as a body shield as he did so. Glancing inside, he saw brooms, a mop, a bucket, and various cleaning supplies nestled into the relative darkness.

But there was no one.

Napoleon looked it over again briefly, then clicked to himself as he closed the door and faced the opposing locker room doors.

"One down," he mumbled to himself, "Two to go." He stepped forward to the Men's Locker Room, and carefully swung the door open. After assuring himself the initial entrance was clear, he stepped through.

The locker rooms of U.N.C.L.E. were designed with field agents in mind. They were designed for temporary storage for agents constantly on the move, so that no matter what happened during the mission; they could always come back to base and find a clean change of clothes, a dry pair of shoes, a spare set of eye glasses, etc. And though security was ever-present on the minds of Section 1 operatives, the field lockers did not have any sort of actual lock, as the assumption was nothing more valuable than a spare U.N.C.L.E. issue communicator or weapon should be kept in the lockers, and sensitive information couldn't even pass under the door without setting an alarm off. And so, when Napoleon Solo entered the men's locker room and discovered the nearest lockers contents scattered all over the floor, a few empty hangers and an empty shoulder holster, he immediately removed his communicator from his jacket, his eyes carefully scanning every crack and crevice as he pulled out the antenna and activated the microphone.

"Open Channel D, Emergency Relay," he said urgently.

"Report, Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly's voice came back almost immediately.

"Sir, the infiltrator got past our block at the infirmary," he said quickly, "But more urgently, sir, is that no one I am aware of got a good look at him aside from the medical personnel, and he seems to have stolen some fresh clothing from the men's locker room."

A brief pause. Then, "Very well, Mr. Solo. We'll put the second floor on a full lock down immediately. Talk to the medical staff; see if they can give you a decent description to go on. We'll have to figure out some way to evacuate the floor without letting him through."

"Yes, sir," Napoleon agreed, still looking the violated locker over. "Just one more thing."

"Yes, Mr. Solo?" Mr. Waverly asked somewhat impatiently.

Napoleon's eyes rested on the empty shoulder holster. "In addition to being disguised as one of us now, sir…I believe he's also armed himself."


End file.
